


The Sparrow and the Rose

by imthetitanic



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Bloodplay, Canon Era, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Knifeplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 18:17:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6387382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imthetitanic/pseuds/imthetitanic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is a stolen poetry book, crying, and sex (plus bonus Jehan/Parnasse first meeting)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sparrow and the Rose

Jehan Prouvaire was a well-read man. He loved his books, such as they were, but he was unable to have many, and the ones he had were worn, against all his careful effort.

So when Montparnasse, well-known member of Patron-Minette, showed up on his doorstep with a beautifully bound poetry collection under his arm and a rose between his teeth, what else was Jehan supposed to do but pull him inside by his cravat and press their lips together?

Montparnasse had not cut the thorns from the rose. Jehan’s lips were bleeding when the kiss broke and the rose was set to the side.

“Where could you possibly have found this?” he asked, swiping his tongue over his lips to collect the droplets of blood and taking the book from Montparnasse reverently.

Montparnasse answered in a grave voice, pronouncing each syllable carefully, “Somewhere.”

Jehan rolled his eyes. “That clarifies things.” He stroked the spine of the book gently. “I am aware you are with Patron-Minette, mon cœur.”

"Am I not allowed to pretend I have secrets, little bird?” Montparnasse grinned, and the bloody streaks on his teeth showed the rose had cut him as well.

Jehan set the book down on his table. Without looking at Montparnasse, he said, “You know I will always know your secrets.” He didn’t turn to see Montparnasse’s face. “You look wonderful.”

He really did, Jehan had to admit, even if he was rather rumpled currently, and although his hat was no longer at its perfect angle.

Jehan had obviously said the right thing, because Montparnasse’s thin hand was on his shoulder, spinning him around, and their lips were meeting once more, blood mingling between them.

Not for the first time, Jehan wondered what would happen if someone found out about their relationship. He’d never see Montparnasse again, almost definitely, and the social consequences would be severe. His friends would never turn him away, especially given Enjolras’s circumstance, such as it was, but otherwise? Jehan could only guess.

As if sensing Jehan’s distress, Montparnasse broke the kiss and pulled Jehan against him. “What is troubling you?”

"The future,” Jehan admitted, letting Montparnasse run his fingers through his hair. Jehan wrapped his arms around the other man. “What should happen if we are ever found out, not to mention Lamarque is on his deathbed and the revolution is coming, and—”

"Let’s not talk about that,” Montparnasse said. Jehan nodded. “How about we go to bed and you can read me something?”

"What should I read you?” Jehan asked, not moving.

Montparnasse shifted. “How about some poetry?” He untangled himself from Jehan, who immediately missed his warmth, and picked up the book from the table, holding it out enticingly.

"I do still want to know whose this book was.” Despite this halfhearted protest, Jehan followed Montparnasse to the bedroom and lit the candle on the side table for light by which to read.

"It belonged to a gardener.” Montparnasse opened his arms, allowing Jehan to lay close, hearing the other man’s heartbeat, strong and steady.

Jehan smiled. “This book must have seen many flowers.”

"That it did, bird.”

Jehan did read from the book, but he only managed to read two poems before he found himself setting it aside. “Montparnasse?” he asked, biting his torn lip.

“Yes?” The answer came after a long pause, and Jehan was unsure whether Montparnasse had fallen asleep.

He paused nearly as long as Montparnasse had before answering, contemplating every word carefully and rolling them around on his tongue before allowing them to issue forth. “I worry still, for my friends and for you. What if I should fall during the rebellion?”

“Even poetry cannot keep you from these thoughts?” Montparnasse sat up, causing it to be necessary that Jehan do the same. “Jehan, you know that if you should fall in the battle to come, you will be remembered as a hero.” Jehan winced away from the words. If he knew anything, he knew heroes, and heroes were rarely worth remembering. “You will die for what you believe in, if you do so at all. I know you do not want to be remembered for your bravery, but you are intrepid, and no one better could be made a hero.”

Jehan felt a hot tear on his cheek and wiped it away with his shirtsleeve. “I do not want to leave you alone, and I do not want to be a memory.” He ceased speaking for a moment, gathering his thoughts and swallowing down the lump that had risen in his throat before it could cause his voice to crack. “Mon cœur, I do not want to die.”

Montparnasse placed a cold hand on the back of Jehan’s neck and drew him in for one of the gentlest kisses they had ever shared, and though it was salty with tears, Jehan never wanted it to end. When it broke, finally, Montparnasse’s face had gone red and patchy with tear tracks, and his green eyes were bloodshot.

Jehan had learned to never comfort Montparnasse through his tears, as the thief hated being caught when his appearance was less than perfect. The first time he had tried was at the beginning of their relationship, when he had found Montparnasse in an alleyway, sobbing. When he had set a hand on the man’s shoulder, he had found himself pressed on the ground beneath Montparnasse’s knee with a knife to his throat.

_“Will you tell me what is troubling you?” Jehan asked, all too conscious of the way the knife rested just so against his Adam’s apple, pricking not deep enough to draw blood._

_The man, tears still falling from his eyes, pressed slightly harder, and Jehan tried to ignore the rush of heat to his groin. He had long ago come to terms with the fact that he was attracted to men, but now was not the time, not when he had a knife to his throat, with Montparnasse above him, long dark hair falling into his eyes, face twisted with rage and pain._

_The low growl of his voice made matters far worse. “Why should you care what troubles me?” he demanded. “Nothing troubles me but fools such as you, who tap on the shoulder of Patron-Minette and believe they will live to tell the tale.”_

_In the face of this new information, Jehan attempted to will his erection down, which only served to strengthen his arousal. “My name is Jean Prouvaire,” he said quietly. “And even the members of Patron-Minette must surely feel.” This was a terrible idea; he should never have tapped on this man’s shoulder, but his concern would not be swayed._

_The man nearly snarled his name, “Montparnasse,” before pressing down hard with his knee. Jehan gasped in pain. “You are fragile as a little bird.” This time his words were almost gentle, and he shifted his weight so he was no longer suffocating Jehan, but this shift caused him to brush against Jehan’s erection, and he laughed at Jehan’s sharp intake of breath._

_He ground himself against Jehan, and at Jehan’s feeble attempt to suppress a moan, dragged the tip of the knife off his neck and trailed it down to his chest. “Please,” Jehan managed to whimper, but he was unsure what he was asking for._

_Montparnasse seemed to know anyway, standing up and reaching out the hand with the knife to Jehan. “Careful, you’ll cut yourself,” he said as Jehan took the offered hand and stood as well._

_It wasn’t taking the hand that proved to be the danger, it was releasing it. As Jehan pulled his hand away, he sliced himself, gasping at the sharp pain and staring at his bleeding hand. Montparnasse discarded the knife and took Jehan’s hand once more, placing the cut to his lips and kissing it. “It is rare to find a man attracted to men on the streets of Paris,” he said in a near-whisper, baring his bloody teeth._

_Jehan shuddered, still painfully aware of his arousal, and murmured, “Maybe to find one who will show it.” He stared into Montparnasse’s green eyes, just barely bloodshot now. The colors in his face were returning to a smooth, pale tone, and Jehan found him ethereally beautiful. He considered, only briefly, suggesting that Montparnasse seek out Grantaire to be painted, but he discarded the thought._

_Montparnasse’s voice was low when he said, “Will you show it?”_

_What else could Jehan do but say yes, leading Montparnasse to his house, to his bed? How else could he respond to this beautifully violent man, this Hades, with anything but his full self? And if he was to have scars from Montparnasse’s knife trailing patterns like kisses over his skin, who was to know?_

Jehan was extremely aware of those scars when he said, “Why do you cry?”

Montparnasse lowered his eyebrows and the brightness in his eyes turned to flame. “I fear for your life,” he said, voice gone low and dangerous.

Jehan pressed his lips just below Montparnasse’s eye, removing a tear. “If you wish me to, I will remain absent from the rebellion.”

Montparnasse moved as fast as ever he was able to, pinning Jehan to the bed by his shoulders. "If you do that, bird, you will cease to be the man I believe you to be.” He brushed his lips against Jehan’s neck and with hot breath whispered, “And I love the man I believe you to be.”

Jehan shifted up against Montparnasse’s weight. “Lamarque will die within the week. The barricades will rise upon the day of his funeral. We don’t have long left.”

“Let’s make the most of this time,” Montparnasse responded, sinking his weight down onto Jehan’s middle and pulling his rumpled coat, cravat, and shirt off, tossing them aside before beginning to undo Jehan’s clothing. His long fingers brushed against the scars from their first meeting, and heat pooled deep in Jehan’s belly.

“Montparnasse, I cannot have an injury the day the barricades rise,” Jehan said, regretting the words the moment Montparnasse set aside the blade he had picked up off the side table.

Montparnasse brushed Jehan’s chest with his fingernails before pulling Jehan’s trousers off and throwing them across the room. He picked up the knife again and danced it over Jehan’s chest, tracing the lines that were already there. “And if you do not bleed?” he asked, leaning down to tug at Jehan’s lower lip with his teeth, breaking the tender skin once more and licking the blood away.

Jehan rolled his hips upward and tugged at Montparnasse’s trousers, but his position made it far too difficult to remove the other man’s clothing, and Montparnasse laughed, removing them himself and revealing his arousal. He ground down against Jehan, pinning Jehan’s wrists over his head with one hand and continuing to trace along his chest with the other.

The cold steel of the knife wreaked havoc on Jehan’s body, awakening every nerve to his desire. In this trapped state, Jehan could do no more than beg for Montparnasse to take pity on him, to let him touch, and he begged with reckless abandon until he was unsure that his words were words, poetry lost to him. Luckily, Montparnasse always knew his mind, from the very first day, and the knife was allowed to rest on Jehan’s bare chest.

“You’re my little bird, Jean Prouvaire,” Montparnasse growled as his hand wrapped around Jehan and stroked too slowly. Heat built and built, and Jehan bucked against Montparnasse, wanting _more, more_ , until Montparnasse took pity and stroked faster until Jehan let go with a low moan.

Jehan found his hands suddenly free, and he removed the blade from his chest. He reached down and ran his fingertips down Montparnasse’s shaft, reveling in the quiet groan the man emitted at the sensation. He expertly worked Montparnasse through his orgasm.

Montparnasse’s lips sought Jehan’s out and pressed hard before opening, and then Montparnasse’s teeth were on his lips and Jehan was letting it happen, pain mingling with pleasure mingling with blood and sweat and contentment. And when it was all over and Jehan was held tight against Montparnasse’s chest, hair falling into his face and the sticky drying sensation on his thighs, Jehan smiled and allowed sleep to find him at last.

 


End file.
